


Kiss My Eyes and Lay Me to Sleep

by DoctorCannoli, hannigramcracker



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, hannibreakdown, lots of angst really, talking about Mischa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:02:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorCannoli/pseuds/DoctorCannoli, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannigramcracker/pseuds/hannigramcracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case involving a dead little girl brings back too many memories for Hannibal, and Will has to help him deal with the onslaught of emotions from the normally stoic man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss My Eyes and Lay Me to Sleep

Hannibal sucked in an even, measured breath, trying to force more air into his lungs. His tie was suddenly too tight and his suit jacket felt confining. Discreetly, he slipped it off, draping it over a nearby chair before clasping his hands behind him. He closed his eyes briefly and tried to push down the hot wave of nausea rising from his stomach to his chest.

Will had warned him that this case was going to be difficult, as crimes involving children often are, but on the phone Hannibal had been confident that he would be able to handle it. But now stuck in this stuffy room at the BAU, looking at pictures of a tiny dead blonde girl, he was not so sure.

He licked his lips and inhaled through his nose. Focusing on his breathing, the world around him grew muffled, voices mingling and receding to a dull roar. He no longer remembered (or cared) why he was needed here. The case before them certainly seemed straightforward enough. This murder was not showy or flashy, it had been committed without care or finesse. It was not the work of their copy cat nor of the Ripper himself.

“…Perhaps she was starved.”

Hannibal was not sure which of them in the room had said those words, but they drew him out of his reverie and shook him to his core. His ears rushed with blood from the pounding of his heart and he felt his palms grow sweaty. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves with shaking fingers, hoping no one had noticed him.

“Hannibal? Are you okay?”

Apparently, he was drawing more attention to himself than he thought.

“Doctor Lecter?” William’s voice was soft from next to him, a whisper cutting through the maelstrom of his thoughts. Was he okay? Decidedly not. He still felt like vomiting. His ribcage was crushing his lungs. He felt trapped, caged. Was this how William felt every day? This loss of control was so foreign to him, that it sent his senses into overdrive. He could smell his own fear, taste it in his mouth. He tasted blood, but not in the satisfying way he had come to enjoy. Without looking up, he could sense the eyes of everyone in the room fixated upon him. He felt vulnerable, exposed. He needed to get out of this room – now.

“Excuse me,” he whispered, his voice accented more heavily than usual. He hated it. Quickly, trying not to stumble, he left the room. 

His head was swimming. He made it outside and to his car before leaning up against the passenger door, the keys still buried in his pockets and him with no ambition to open the door. It was cold, too cold, colder even than the snow he felt drifting around his ankles. It was crushing him, closing in on him from all sides, a dark cold fear overshadowing him and clutching his heart in its icy grip. With a gasp, he slumped against the door of his car, sliding down the cold metal to the snowy ground below. 

–--

By the time Will looked up, Hannibal had left the room, his form disappearing around a corner. Whatever had just happened, something was not right.

“What the hell was that about?” Jack asked gruffly, nodding towards the door Hannibal had just exited through. 

“I don’t know,” Will shook his head, his mind racing. Without another word, he grabbed his coat and hat and headed towards the door, ignoring Jack’s shouts as he, too, left the room, following after Hannibal. Judging by what he had observed, he guessed that Hannibal would have gone outside (it’s what he would have done if he needed some air), and made for the exit. 

Pushing out of the door, Will inhaled sharply at the cold that greeted him. He thought of Hannibal, and wondered how far he had gotten without a coat on. Glancing around, he saw footprints headed out towards the parking lot. Without a better lead, Will followed them, quickly finding Hannibal slumped down in the slush beside his car.

“Hannibal!” Will exclaimed, crouching down beside him. “Are you all right?”

The man didn’t react. Will looked him over for signs of injury, but all he found were dirtied and wet clothing – which, for Hannibal – was a sure enough sign that something was wrong. Something in the briefing room had set Hannibal off, quite badly from the looks of it. Will just wished he knew what it was. 

Standing back up, Will didn’t say anything, just stood by the man’s side, waiting. From his own experiences, he knew that no one could be made to talk before he was ready. So he was ready to wait for Hannibal to speak. At the very least, he hoped his presence would be enough to calm him somewhat.

“I have a sister.”

Will froze, surprised not only that Hannibal had spoken, but that he began by sharing something so personal. Hannibal had never before mentioned family. He guess he’d always assumed that he’d been an only child, that he had been an only child. He’d never stopped to think about Hannibal’s family. He’d never needed to. His sessions with Hannibal had always been about him, and Hannibal had always been so guarded, even in their friendship. He never strayed from superficial topics – cooking, fine wines, artists and composers and authors he favored – never delving any deeper than that. Will had assumed it was because he was his therapist after all; he couldn’t break some semblance of professionalism (though it was all shot to hell now, he realized, as Hannibal sat in the snow at his feet, clearly not in control of himself as the man always was). 

“You… you never mentioned her before,” Will said softly, trying to wrap his brain around what Hannibal had just shared, trying to get him talking again.

“My younger sister,” Hannibal nodded, once. “She adored me, when she was younger. Always wanted to be near me, know what I was doing, follow in my footsteps. She was such a little thing – like a fairy. Small and blonde. She was precious to me, my closest friend as a child. She was my world…” 

Will watched, intrigued as Hannibal trailed off. As he’d spoken of his sister, Hannibal’s face had grown soft, his eyes crinkling slightly around the edges and the corner of his lips turning up. He’d looked almost… happy.

“Where is she now?” Will asked. “Is she still in Lithuania?”

All the light that had come into Hannibal’s eyes while he’d been speaking suddenly vanished. Will could see his countenance darken as he once more retreated, his posture stiffening, his shoulders coming in as he seemingly shrunk in the cold. “No, William,” he said in an even, measured tone. “She is dead.”

Will felt ill, his blood freezing in his veins. “Oh god… Christ, Hannibal. I’m… I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t… I shouldn’t… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hannibal said numbly, not looking at Will, rather, staring out straight ahead of him. “You had no way of knowing.”

Will shuffled his feet in the snow, jamming his hands further into his pockets. He’d succeeded in nothing since coming out here, nothing other than to bring up Hannibal’s extremely painful past and make him feel worse than before. It made sense now, however – why Hannibal had all but run from the briefing room. He’d seen his sister in those photographs, seen the resemblance in the girl’s face, and panicked. For once, Will didn’t have to empathize with the man to guess how he felt – he’d experienced that panic firsthand. It wasn’t a feeling he’d wish on anyone.

He just wished he knew what to do to help.

\--- 

Hannibal was vaguely aware of William’s presence beside him, shivering in the winter wind as it blew snow in drifts around them. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel cold himself – he did not feel anything. Or maybe he was feeling too much. He had not felt this way in a long time, not in years, not since he was much, much younger. He had learned to trap it all away, to harness his fear and hurt and secret it all away in a corner of his mind, a dungeon in the palace of his thoughts. It was too dangerous to let the fear and anger and guilt – always so much guilt – have its way. 

Rationally, he knew that guilt did not make any sense. He had been little more than a child himself at the time; there was no way he could have saved Mischa. But that logical portion of his brain was far removed from the emotional center of his mind, which told him that he should have fought harder, done more, given all he could to stop them from taking her, from harming her. But still, he could have done more and, sitting here in the snow, he knew that. He could have given everything he had, sacrificed himself instead. If only Mischa could see him now… 

His breath caught in his throat, the cold air piercing his windpipe on the way down. It felt as if his very breath was solidifying into ice and lodging itself somewhere between his mouth and his lungs, clogging his airway and making it impossible for more to get through. He knew William was still standing next to him, mere steps away from helping him, but he couldn’t even call out to him, not with ice lining his throat. 

Hannibal inhaled shakily as his chest heaved and buckled under the weight of being confronted with his past. The temperature of the air was betraying him – the breath escaping in tortured huffs was condensing as soon as it left his trembling lips, making a show of how much he was struggling to control himself. Gasping, he clutched as his chest as a violent shiver ripped through him. Lungs laced with ice, he could feel how cold the snow he was sitting in was. He could feel it pooling and solidifying beneath him, soaking through his pant legs and into his very core. 

He barely registered Will calling his name, but he couldn't answer. He blinked rapidly a few times, trying to reign himself in, trying to remember where he was. He was vaguely aware that he was sitting in a parking lot, his back pressed up against the cold hubcap of his car, but his brain told him otherwise. All he could see in front of him was a vast, white expanse dotted with red and black – blood and corpses. Though he knew in reality that he was much older, in this moment, he was a child once more, clutching Mischa in his lap. She was so small and cold, vibrating with fear and whimpering to him as she turned her face into his chest. The smell of her tiny blonde head underneath his chin flooded his senses. She was all he had, and he was the only one who could keep her safe. 

Then, three men clad in army uniforms were before him, tearing her from his grasp and dragging her away from him. She kicked, screamed; he stumbled to his feet, reached in front of him, only to be struck down. Sobbing and falling into the snow, he was suddenly blinded by the biting cold flying up into his hair and eyes. His already frostbitten fingers clutched fistfuls of white as he struggled to get back up when a single scream filled the air – shrill and unforgettable. He knelt in the snow, deafened by the bone-chilling silence. 

Hannibal moaned lowly and wrapped his hands around his middle, leaning to the side and vomiting into the snow. Will was closer now, crouched on his opposite side, speaking urgently next to him, words he could not make out. For above his voice was another’s – a horse, quiet voice mumbling strings of phrases that he knew well. Words he remembered saying to his dear Mischa on the worst cold nights they’d had to endure together. 

He felt something heavy drape around his shoulders and he tried to regain lucidity by holding onto the weight of it. He needed something tangible to help pull him out of this memory and back into the present. Moments later, he felt a tentative hand settle on his shoulder. Will. William. His Will who was so hesitant to reach out to others was breaking out of himself to comfort him in his uncharacteristic weakness. The gesture spoke volumes, even across his sudden madness, and Hannibal reached up to cover Will’s hand with his own, clutching as tightly as his frozen fingers would allow. 

He had been thrown a lifeline and he was terrified to let go of it, of Will, the only person he dared trust. In the years since he’d lost Mischa, he’d closed himself off from others, protecting himself by keeping away from those he might develop an attachment to. He’d chosen the path of solitude in order to spare himself the pain of losing yet another person he cared about, but in William, he’d found someone so honest, so open and intriguing that he’d begun letting his walls down. He’d found more comfort in William than he’d ever hoped, and as he slowly came back to himself, back to William, he was certain of two things: he had failed his sister and lost her, but he would never, ever let Will Graham go. Never. 

\---

Will crouched in front of his therapist, his mentor, his friend and stayed as still as he could as Hannibal clutched to him. The grip was vice-like, even in the cold, and, honestly, it was starting to hurt a little bit. Although he had quieted, Hannibal was beginning to tremble beneath his grip; Will could feel his body reverberating under his hand. He wasn't sure if it was due to the cold that they both had been sitting in for far too long now or something else entirely. Either way, Will knew that they couldn’t just continue to sit here in the snow. Hannibal needed to get warm, get safe, before someone found him like this. It wouldn’t do for someone from the FBI to see their consulting psychologist having a mental breakdown in the parking lot. 

“Hannibal... Hey, Hannibal?” Will tried to get the man's attention. He looked absolutely awful and Will was half afraid he might be sick again. “Hannibal, we should probably get in the car. It's cold out here. I’m cold. Aren’t you cold? Huh? …Hannibal?” 

The man in question was still unresponsive, shivering before him. Even though his body was sitting here in the snow, Will could tell that Hannibal was not in the parking lot with him right now; his mind was far, far away. He could see the worlds of hurt and torment being reflected in his almost empty eyes. Will shivered. He knew the feeling of being somewhere else mentally, and he knew it well. 

Suddenly, he heard a door clang shut and looked around to see who was coming. It was Jack, having followed him out of BAU. Will swore under his breath. He knew that he had to keep Jack from seeing Hannibal like this. Will patted Hannibal’s shoulder, whispering a promise to return, and rose from the balls of his feet, heading towards Jack. He hoped he could head him off before he came too close. Jack caught sight of Will and began walking briskly towards him, his posture tense and his face stern. Will felt a surge of protectiveness swell inside him and he squared his shoulders as he confronted Uncle Jack head-on.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Jack's demanding voice cut through the cold air. 

“We have to go, Jack,” he started, speaking without thinking ahead to what he would say next. 

“Go?” Jack scowled. “Go where? We’re in the middle of an investigation, Will! I need you!” 

“Hannibal just got a call about a family emergency,” Will lied through his teeth, so smoothly he surprised himself with how confident his voice sounded. 

“Family? What family?” 

“I don’t know,” Will protested. “We just have to go. I’ll be back in tomorrow morning.”

Jack’s frown deepened but he didn’t stop him. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Will said, but Jack had already turned on his heel, huffing back towards the warmth of the building and letting the door slam shut behind him in a flurry of snow. 

With a sigh of relief, Will headed back to Hannibal. He found him just as he had left him, sitting in the slush with the snow seeping through his trousers. His lips were beginning to turn blue and Will was afraid to leave him in the cold for much longer. He crouched beside Hannibal once more and put his hand on his shoulder, giving it a little shake.

“Hannibal? We have to get you out of here. You're going to get sick.” 

Hannibal never even looked up; his gaze was fixated on the snow as he mumbled words that Will could not understand. 

“ _Mociute mano, Sirdele mano, Vai noriu, Noriu, Saldans m iegelio._ ” (I comfort you, my dear child, soon you will be asleep, and nothing will disturb you)

Will sighed and ran a hand through his hair, feeling completely out of his depth. He didn’t know what Hannibal was trying to say – he wasn’t speaking English or anything even close to it – and he didn’t know how to get through to him. All he knew was that he had to figure out something, and soon. If he didn’t, Hannibal was likely to become hypothermic.

He tried to think about what Hannibal did for him when he lost time, how he helped him find himself again when he was lost. In those times, Hannibal helped him focus, always drawing him to something concrete, something very much rooted in the present. With that thought in mind, Will reached out and tugged his jacket more squarely onto Hannibal's shoulders. It didn't fit well, as Hannibal's shoulders were much broader than his own, but he did what he could, pulling it taut over the man’s chest. Then, still crouched in front of him, he carefully reached out and took Hannibal’s face in his hands, lifting his face and looking into his eyes, which were wet and shining with tears. 

“Hannibal?” he said softly, calmly. “Hannibal, please. I need you to answer me. Hannibal…” It wasn't working. He was still mumbling, still looking so lost and confused that Will was half tempted to just sit down in the snow and grieve with him. But he couldn’t. He had to be the strong one this time. Hannibal needed him and Will was not about to let him down. However, rather than repeating his name, Will decided it might be better to try a different title, one native to this time in his life. 

“Doctor Lecter?” he whispered.

Hannibal's eyes shot up to him so quickly that Will himself flinched. He wasn’t prepared for what he now saw Hannibal’s eyes, the piercing gaze that seemed to look into his very soul, spearing straight to the core of him and looking for answers, for whatever penance or forgiveness he was seeking, for a peace that would make the demons in his head stop screaming. Will took in a shaky breath and spoke again.

“D-Doctor Lecter... It’s three in the afternoon. We’re in the parking lot of the FBI. We’re safe. But we have to get you home.” 

“ _Namai_ \- Home. Yes,” he murmured, stirring. His accent was thicker than normal and he still seemed disoriented, but he was at least responding now.

“ _Namai_ ,” Will repeated, nodding. “Yes.”

Hannibal shivered, speaking something in his native language, and heaving a shaky sigh. “Yes, William. Of course. I am sorry to have kept you waiting like this…”

“It’s… it’s not a problem,” Will stammered, suddenly feeling unsure. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Let me help you up, all right?”

Hannibal did not protest as Will reached for him, grasping his forearm and pulling him to his feet. Hannibal kept his eyes downcast as he gained his footing, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his keyring. He turned towards the door and made to unlock it, but his hands were shaking so badly that he dropped them in the snow.

“Here,” Will stepped in close, picking them up for him. “Why don’t I drive? I think that… that might be better.”

“Yes,” Hannibal nodded once, the sensible thing to do, and crossed to the passenger side without a word. Will unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel. As he started the engine, fiddling with the mirrors and cranking up the heat, he stole a glance at Hannibal. He moved so carefully, so precisely, that Will still suspected something was not quite right. Hannibal was always so stoic, but now that he had seen a crack in his façade, Will could see something else lurking just beneath the surface, something scarred and broken and oh so vulnerable. Will felt for him; he knew firsthand what it was like to build up walls only to have them come tumbling down. Yet for all that knowledge, he had no idea how to react to it in another person, let alone someone like Hannibal. 

“D…do you want me to take you home?” Will asked softly.

“That would be preferable. Thank you, William.”

Will nodded. “O-okay.” He wished he could stop stuttering. If ever there was a time he needed to be strong, it was now, and he felt as though he was failing miserably.

He put the car in gear and began to pull away, trying to pay more attention to the road than the man beside him. It was odd to be in this position – taking care of the man who generally took care of him – and Will was still concerned for him. His breathing was… not erratic, but still not normal, and he kept wringing his hands in his lap. He was staring straight ahead of him, his gaze seemingly on the road (where Will knew his gaze should have been), but Hannibal was blinking more than he normally did. 

Seeing him like this made Will feel unsettled, agitated. Selfishly, he wished Hannibal would just stop and begin acting like himself once more; it was difficult for him to see his rock eroding into sand. Yet with his next thought, Will reminded himself that it wasn’t so easy, and that if something had been traumatic enough to shake Hannibal, it was a serious matter indeed.

\---

Hannibal came back to himself with a vicious shake, startling himself as well as Will.

“Sorry!” Will exclaimed, his hands up in a sign of peace and calm. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I only wanted to let you know we’re home.”

Hannibal took a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic spike in his heartbeat. “Yes. Thank you,” he glanced at Will, but the man immediately turned his eyes elsewhere. Hannibal wondered how uncomfortable this was for him. He knew it wasn’t easy for Will to have seen him like that – like this, he corrected himself – but, to his credit, he was still here. He hadn’t run off. His loyalty spoke volumes. 

“Come on,” Will murmured. “Let’s get inside, huh?”

Hannibal followed Will out of the car, content to let him lead the way up the steps. Will unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for Hannibal as he made his way in. Hannibal tried to convey his appreciation with a glance (it was all he could really manage right now), but Will was still being skittish. 

“Here we are,” he said, shuffling his weight from foot to foot as they stood in the foyer. “Home at last.”

“Home,” he repeated softly, but the word felt all wrong on his tongue, the harsh English syllables never felt more foreign. This was not what he thought of when he thought of home, of _namai_. When he closed his eyes, he still saw the Lithuanian countryside, his childhood home, his father and mother and Mischa… Opening his eyes, he only saw his current home. The home he had made for himself here in America, in Baltimore, with his practice and his dinner parties. It wasn’t living, but it was a life.

“You’re probably still cold,” Will spoke, his voice once more bringing Hannibal out of his reverie. “Can… can I get you anything?

Hannibal gently shrugged Will's coat off of his shoulders and allowed Will to take it from his outstretched hand with an unsure jerking movement. “Thank you, I think I would just like to take a shower.” 

Will nodded at Hannibal's soft request. Hannibal could tell that the other man felt awkward, dwarfed in his large house. Hannibal was afraid for a moment that Will would leave him now, and then he would be left alone again. Alone with all the cold and the memories that threatened to break down the walls of his house and invade each crack and crevice of his life that he had tried and worked so hard to keep separate. 

Hannibal knew that it was all crumbling around his feet and there was going to be nothing he could do to keep his demons away; especially if Will left him right now. Hannibal felt like he was at war with himself. He did not want to be alone, and he did not want to let Will in any further than he was already. Letting anyone else in was dangerous – once someone infiltrated his mind palace in one area, it would only be a matter of time until they breached into every different room, no matter how tightly Hannibal locked them. It wouldn't take long for them to get into the basement where his darkest secrets were kept hidden from the light of day. He felt weak, and he could feel hatred for that bubbling just underneath the numbness that still engulfed him. Hannibal bent at the waist to undo his shoes with fingers that still trembled. His hair fell into his face and he looked up through it at Will, who looked wary to leave Hannibal like this right now. Comforted that Will did not seem to want to leave, when Hannibal stood back up, he took as deep a breath that he could spare and spoke again. 

“Will, maybe if you could, I think I would benefit from some tea when I returned. Or possibly some red wine.” Hannibal said, still unable to raise his voice above much more than a horse whisper. He had to work to keep his native tongue out of his mouth and as a result, the syllables of his request were clipped and awkwardly weighted. 

“Of course. Is your kettle in the kitchen?” Will asked, smirking a little and toeing off his own shoes. 

Hannibal looked Will over for a moment. Could he trust Will in his kitchen, with all the delicate secrets it held? Would Will walk in and see his design in a moment? Hannibal saw the genuine concern still etched into Will's eyes and knew it would be fine. It was a reason to make Will stay, and to make him feel useful. 

“Yes, it is on the stove. The tea is in the cupboard directly above, and sugar is on the counter.” 

“Got it. Look, don't worry. I'm not going to go messing up your kitchen or anything. Tea, and that's it. I wouldn't know the first thing to do with any of your spices or anything even if I tried. Go shower now. Get out of those wet clothes.” 

Hannibal nodded graciously and had to stop himself from thanking Will in Lithuanian. He shook his head lightly as he walked up the carpeted stairs, more aware than ever exactly how wet the backs of his legs were. He would have to dry clean his suit. He closed the door to his bedroom and leaned against the smooth wood for a moment, trying to keep his heart from pounding. Hand still around the doorknob, he leaned forward and heaved in a ragged breath. He clenched his eyes shut and shivered slightly, his body reminding him of how cold it was beneath his slowly drying clothing. Hannibal swallowed and let go of the knob, walking forward to his dresser and opening the second drawer and taking out a pair of dark blue linen pants with a button up flannel to match and carrying the clothes into the en suite bathroom with him. 

After struggling a few moments with undoing the complex Windsor knot of his tie, Hannibal unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off of his shoulders before reaching into the shower and turning the faucet on. He undid his pants and peeled the fabric that was slightly stuck to the back of his clammy thighs. He let them pool around his ankles and stepped out of them before tugging down his boxers and plucking his socks off. 

He stood for a moment before the sink's wide basin and braced his hands against the marbled surface. He shivered slightly in the cool empty air of the bathroom and he breathed deeply through his nose. He clenched his eyes shut and flinched slightly as his nose filled with the scent of straw and bodies huddled close together for warmth, and his ears with the cries and moans of the starving children that surrounded him in the dark. He could feel Mischa reaching up and wrapping her tiny hand into his hair and playing with his earlobe. He could hear her tiny voice asking him where her mother was, what they were going to eat for dinner tonight. Hannibal forced his eyes open and looked at himself in the mirror, trying to ground himself to the present. His image nearly shattered the mirror, the object surely had never seen him so disheveled before – naked, trembling, his hair coming down over his forehead in uneven strands. He stared into his own hollow eyes and watched as one tear fell down to the tip of his nose. 

Resolutely, he reached into the shower with one hand to test the temperature before stepping into the shower entirely. He stood still for a few minutes, facing the shower head, letting the water run down his tan and toned body. He hung his head forward and let the warm water trail through his sandy hair and down the sides of his face and neck, letting the water bead against his shoulder blades. His breath hitched and he reached out to brace the wall, back flexing, muscles rippling beneath the taut flesh. Tears began to fall down the drain along with the water beating against his back. 

Within the safe confines of his locked bathroom, Hannibal sobbed. His cries wracked his body and left his voice hoarse and painful. He lamented for the past, for Mischa – his beautiful little Mischa – and the woman she was never able to become. He ached for his parents and the life he could have had, with them in Lithuania, had he not been subjected to the horrors he had seen. 

Hannibal made a fist and threw it against the side of the shower in a half-hearted attempt to give himself something else to focus on than his tears, but his breath kept hitching and his body kept shaking and his chest kept heaving. His toes curled in on the wet floor and he tried to pull himself together. His nose and eyes were streaming, and he could hardly breathe. The steam was choking him, and the water was losing its heat. How long had he been up here? He stepped out of the shower, leaving it on, needing the buffer from the rest of the world, before he sat down on the plush rug beside the shower, leaning his back against the cool porcelain and bringing his knees up. He braced his feet on the floor and elbows on his knees. He clutched his arm and rubbed his skin, trying to erase the phantom pain still left over from all those years ago. His arm now was not broken, it was healed and fine, but it hurt as though it was bleeding with the bone protruding still. He remembered how he had to lick the blood off his forearm to prevent the hay he sat in getting stuck in it and risking infection because of it.

He tasted it in his mouth, between his teeth and under his tongue, and felt sick. 

Hannibal shook his head roughly, exhaled out of his nose and leaned harder against the side of the bathtub. He reached down and clutched handfuls of the shag carpet he sat on, proving to himself that he was not sitting in a barn full of dirt and straw, but rather in a large bathroom in his large house with Will downstairs waiting for him to return. He worked to calm his breaths back into a normal pattern, as the last of his sobs hitched out, and the tears and water from the shower dried on his face and in his hair. 

Sitting there, the water running behind him, he thought he heard the doorbell ring downstairs. He paused for a moment, not wanting to let anyone else into his life right now. He listened closely, and thought he heard Will open the door. He trusted that Will would and could handle whatever was outside right now. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, trying to school himself back into a state of control. 

Though he most often chose solitude, in this moment, Hannibal wanted nothing more than to be near Will, to be calmed by his presence, his face, his charming curls and disarming smile. But it would not do for Will to see him this way. Will was far too perceptive for his own good, sometimes, and if Hannibal allowed Will to see him like this – for a second time – Will would most certainly pick up on his mood. One breakdown had been quite enough to share with his William. He wasn’t about to willingly share another.

\---

Downstairs, Will had been staring at the kettle, watching it, waiting for it to boil, when the doorbell chimed. Startled out of his thoughts (about Hannibal, of course), he hesitated, hoping that whoever it was would just turn around and go home. Just when he thought the coast was clear, the doorbell rang again. Grudgingly, Will left the kitchen and padded down the hallway to the front door. He should at least see who was there. Hannibal would want that, he reasoned. It would, after all, be rude to ignore someone. 

Grasping the polished doorknob, Will opened the door just a crack, just enough to peer out and see who was there. What he saw did not make sense.

“Jack?” he shook his head, as if to clear it and make sure he was really seeing who he thought he saw. “What…?”

“Will. I thought you’d be here.”

“You _thought_ I’d be here,” Will parroted, still trying to work out why Jack, of all people, would be on Hannibal’s doorstep. It seemed like his answer didn’t take long at all. “So you’re here for me?”

“Well, I wanted to see how Hannibal was doing. You know… after he rushed out so quickly and then you, in the parking lot…”

“As I said, everything is fine,” Will said curtly, feeling protective when it came to Hannibal and his well-being. “Hannibal had a family emergency and I had to drive him home.”

“Yes, well, you also said that you weren’t going to be back at the office until tomorrow. I wanted to see if I could get you to change your mind.”

“Jesus,” Will breathed, shaking his head. 

“Hear me out, Will! We’re trying to solve a child’s murder here.”

“I know that…”

“Then you know why I’m asking you to help. All the family wants is answers, Will.”

“Answers to what?” Will snapped. “There’s nothing more to say. Beverly and Price and Zeller can tell you how she died.”

“I need you to tell me the why.”

“It can wait.”

“This family is grieving, Will.”

“And they’ll continue to grieve for years. One day won’t change anything.”

Jack scowled at Will, clearly displeased, but unable to force him to come back to work. “Here,” he said finally shoving a file into Will’s chest. “At least look at this, if you won’t do anything else.”

“So you drove the hour and a half from Quantico to give me a file?” Will said, meeting Jack’s gaze.

“I wanted your help,” Jack said evenly, his eyes challenging Will to speak again. “Is that acceptable?”

The two men stared at each other in confrontation, neither willing to give an inch. Neither spoke, until the sound of the tea kettle whistling reminded Will he had other things to be doing.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Will said, placing the file under his arm. “I have to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jack.”

Jack did not look pleased, but then again, he didn’t look any angrier about being dismissed. “Tell Hannibal he has my condolences, for whatever is going on.”

Will nodded briskly. “Yup, thanks.”

He waited until Jack had turned and started down the walk before closing the door, locking it behind him for good measure. He leaned against the doorframe ever so briefly, glad to be shutting the world out, before heading back towards the kitchen. The tea kettle was still screaming and Will quickly shut off the gas burner, instantly quieting the noise. Setting the file aside on the counter, he opened the cupboard above the stove to look for the tea that Hannibal had said would be there. Smiling when he found what he was looking for, Will pulled down a chamomile blend. That would be nice and soothing. It wasn’t his favorite type of tea – sometimes all the herbs were just a bit too much – but he thought Hannibal might appreciate it.

Crossing to the other side of the kitchen, Will opened a glass-fronted cupboard and pulled down two delicate china teacups. They were beautiful – pure white with a scrolling crimson pattern. Will admired them for a moment, looking at the intricate design, noting the interplay of the colors, the bold splashes of red against the stark white, almost like blood on a corpse. 

_Blood on a corpse._

Without warning, Will felt the teacup slip out of his hand. He wasn’t even sure how it happened, it was so fast. It was as if his fingers went numb and suddenly could not hold on. He stared at the shards around his feet – the pieces fanning out around him. He didn’t even remember seeing it fall. Oh, god. He felt mortified. He had to clean it up before Hannibal…

“William? Is everything all right?”

Startled, Will spun around to find Hannibal standing by the stove. He’d entered the kitchen without him knowing and was standing there, still a bit rumpled and damp from his shower, staring at Will and the mess he had made. Will felt like a child, could feel the heat of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks. He couldn’t believe how clumsy he’d been, how stupid, and now to have broken something of Hannibal’s, something so lovely…

“God, Hannibal, I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened… I…”

“Please,” the older man cut him off. “It is fine. Let me grab a broom.”

“Let me – let me help,” Will offered, taking the broom from Hannibal’s hand once he had pulled it from the closet. “I made the mess; I should clean it up.”

“As I said, William, it is not a calamity. I have been known to break teacups on occasion as well. No lasting harm has been done.”

“I should have been more careful, Hannibal. I'll clean it up.” Will continued to berate himself and Hannibal sighed, smiling softly. 

“I will clean it. You make the tea.” Hannibal suggested, holding the broom in his hand. He did not look up at Will while speaking; instead, his eyes were glued to the shattered tea cup on the floor. 

Hannibal heard Will turn around behind him and fuss with the water and tea bags. The cups clinked daintily on the counter, reminding Hannibal of what lay broken in front of him. He stared at the broken pieces in front of him, his mind spiraling. He willed the pieces to move in reverse, to reassemble and soar through the air back onto the counter top, back into Will's hand. Hannibal willed and wished and pleaded with the empty air around the teacup to lift it and put it back together so he could turn around and see not only the cup in his Will's hand, but also Mischa. If the cup could just defy the laws of physics for one moment in his long life, he could turn around to see the two most important people in his life to date – Mischa trying to crawl her way out of Will's arms to look at the shiny things on the counter. She never did like to be held. 

“H-Hannibal...? I-I can really clean that, if you...”

Hannibal snapped out of his thoughts as quickly as he had slid into them. Immediately, he crouched and began to pick up the larger pieces. He thought fleetingly about gluing them back together, but what good would that do? He swept up the smaller pieces and threw them out and walked to the attached sitting room without a word. 

The cup was not going to put itself back together, and Mischa was not coming back. Not then, not now, and not ever. 

He sat in one of the large wing backed chairs he kept in front of a fireplace in that room. His hands still shook and he pressed them together, trying to dispel the trembles. Goosebumps broke out unbidden on his forearms, sending an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. His skin tingled with it, and he found himself kneeling before the cavernous mouth of the fireplace, piling wood inside it out of sheer habit. He always made fires for he and Mischa back when they were cold and on their own. Before they were found, before the barn; back when she would ask what was for dinner in a small voice and cuddle into him for warmth when he said he didn't know. 

Hannibal shut his eyes tightly and let the heat of the fire warm his arms. He wanted to tell Will about what he was thinking, of the thoughts that wouldn't leave his mind. Something did not feel right about that, however. He had never opened up about the tragedy of his little Mischa to anyone, and thought he had begun to open up to Will, he still held himself at a distance. He wasn't ready to make himself vulnerable like that. Not completely. Not yet. 

He would have to wait for an evening when a little bird would land on his shoulder. He could whisper all of his little secrets to her and watch her fly away. 

He smelled Will before he saw him. His scent carried to Hannibal along with the sharp aroma of the camomile tea. Hannibal opened his eyes and moved back to his chair. Will handed Hannibal the steaming cup wordlessly and Hannibal wrapped himself around it. To end the silence, Hannibal asked “Was there someone at the door when I was upstairs?” 

“Oh. Yeah, uh. Jack came over here.” Will said, settling into the empty chair. He took a small sip of his tea before hissing softly at the heat of it. “He wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“And undoubtedly to see if you were planning to return to the case.”

“Well, yes. But I think he was actually worried about you. He could have just called me instead of driving the whole hour and a half here.” 

Hannibal sipped his tea wordlessly. 

“Are-...are you okay?” 

Hannibal sipped in silence and stared at the teacup whole in his hand. He was without a bird, perhaps a mongoose would have to do. 

“Am I?” Hannibal asked his tea. Will blinked at him from his chair. The fire crackled before them. Hannibal sighed, a breath that shook. His chest constricted with the words.“Her name...was Mischa. She would have been 34 next month.” 

Hannibal heard Will's sharp intake of breath, felt the energy in the room change as the younger man immediately began empathizing with his loss. He did not have to say a word for Hannibal to read the emotion on Will's face, the way his gaze became softer and yet more focused, how his body sagged under the weight of the information he was sharing. 

"She died when she was a little girl. When we were children. She was my whole world," Hannibal said, knowing he was sharing more than he ought, but he just could not stop himself, couldn't keep it all inside. 

Hot tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he swiftly closed them, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in and out through his nose in an effort to keep himself from breaking down again. It would not do. He could not let go like this. He had to be strong. Strong for himself. Strong for Mischa. Strong for Will. 

In the space of a moment, he heard a quick rustle of fabric and the sound of soft footsteps before he felt the warm pressure of a hand on his knee. Caught off guard, Hannibal flinched, but the touch of Will's hand remained constant, undeterred. After several moments, Hannibal opened his eyes and, though his sight was blurry with unshed tears, he could see Will kneeling beside his chair, one hand on the armrest and the other on his knee, offering nothing more than tactile comfort. Hannibal reached out and placed his hand on the top of Will’s head, creating a closed circuit of life, of muscle and blood and breath and bone. He curled his fingers into Will’s hair, needing just for a moment to relish in the feeling of someone so alive.

Hannibal often retreated into the ghostly world of the dead, he needed this moment to accept the comfort of the living. And Will – dear William – knew exactly how to reach out to him, moving beyond his own personal discomforts in order to help him in his time of need. The gesture spoke volumes to him as a psychiatrist, but even more so as a friend. 

Hannibal carded his fingers through Will’s hair for a few moments before disentangling his hand. Will’s eyes had slipped shut then and, when he opened them, they immediately sought his own. Hannibal met Will’s eyes, wanting to say something, but could only mumble his thanks. Belatedly, he realized he had not spoken in English, but Will didn’t seem to mind. He simply smiled, softly, the corner of his mouth curving up. 

“You’re welcome. Thank you for trusting me.” Hannibal nodded, discreetly swallowing the lump in his throat that prevented him from saying any more.Good Will was much too kind to him, much more than he deserved, and yet he allowed himself to accept the comfort he had so long denied himself. It was what Mischa would want; she had never wanted him to be sad. 

Hannibal never could deny Mischa anything.

\---

The tea was finished, a few more words were exchanged, Will was occupying his guest room, and Hannibal lay in his bed, looking around in the darkness. He was on his back, his hands folded neatly into each other, thumbs rubbing together in a small self soothing gesture. The clothes he had been wearing earlier in the day were driving him to distraction, sitting as they were in a wet, rumpled pile in the corner. The thought of keeping something unclean overnight had him practically crawling out of his skin. He wanted to get out of bed to wash and iron them, right now, right at this very minute, but he knew they were a lost cause. He would be lucky if a dry cleaning could save them. The suit might be lost to him forever.

He closed his eyes for a moment, the shadows of his room melting away. He did not want to sleep tonight, not particularly. He knew that after a day like he had been through, there would be no escape from the nightmares he normally kept well under control. His eyes stung with tears both shed and unshed, and coupled with the exhaustion his body was feeling now it was getting increasingly difficult to keep from drifting off, no matter how apprehensive he felt. 

The only good thing was that Will had not left. After their tea, Hannibal had expected Will to gather his coat and prepare for the snowy trek home. Instead, Will had surprised him, asking where the guest room and extra towels were. Of course, he’d had no objection to Will staying in his home (secretly, he preferred it – not being alone on tonight of all nights). When he’d taken their empty teacups to the kitchen, Hannibal had heard Will on the phone with Alana, asking her to feed his dogs and directing her to where he hid his extra key. Hannibal smiled to himself thinking about that now, letting his eyes slip shut. 

His good Will…

Just as he’d feared, it wasn’t long before Hannibal awoke from the dreams of small and bloody dead girls laying in pieces on a table covered in a deep purple cloth with an ax, buried in the fine wood of the table, serving as a centerpiece. A guttural scream caught in his throat as he came fully to himself once more, and he was not entirely surprised to hear a soft knock on his door while he still worked to calm his breaths. 

His mind whirled. His lips moved soundlessly, the words bubbling free; _Mischa, Mischa, Mischa, my love._ He took a few moments to collect himself before called for Will to come in. 

Wordlessly, Will padded to Hannibal's overlarge bed and climbed into the side that was not occupied by the psychiatrist. Hannibal turned over to look at the curly haired man, the tiniest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“I had a nightmare and I was worried I might sleepwalk and break something expensive of yours, so I thought it might be better if I slept in here.” Will's words came out in a rush, and it was clear to Hannibal he had rehearsed this story in the hallway. Hannibal nodded anyway, gratefulness swelling in his chest with such a rush it almost took his breath away. 

Will smiled sheepishly and closed his eyes, but not before laying his hand out in a silent invitation. Warmth and comfort emanated off of Will and Hannibal took a few breaths before extending his hand and lacing his fingers into Will's, fingertips digging into the soft skin a bit too harshly. 

His charming mongoose would be there to eat up the snakes of his past whenever they threatened to slither around and squeeze his chest so hard his heart would burst from his throat. 

**Author's Note:**

> This took us a thousand years and many aggressive text message conversations to finish, so I hope that someone else cares as much about the Mischa storyline as we do. 
> 
> The lullaby in the middle is just something I found on the internet, and any other Lithuanian is just from google translate. If anyone sees or knows of anything that should be corrected, just let us know and we will fix it!


End file.
